Through the Grapevine
by bombastic-banter
Summary: Follow the ever tenacious Gabriella Montez on the road to find herself: facing kids who always seem to break out into song, the SATs, and Troy Bolton, a boy who has seemed to squirm himself into her life while she wasn’t even looking. TroyGabriella.
1. I'm the Narrator

_Author's Note__: HELLO READERS. If there are any out there. I'm really sorry this took forever and ever to get put up, but junior year is absolute murder - so I never had the time. But here it is; it's a completely different side of my writing, (much more humorous) so for all you fans of any of the drabbles in __Rush__, I hope you'll still enjoy this regardless. It's slightly AU, but it definitely keeps similar plots and references to HSM. This first chapter just really sets the stage for the rest of the story - all told in Gabriella's point of view - introducing you to the characterization, style, etc; so it's short. I'm rambling now, but __**I wish you all a very happy new year. Stay safe**__. __**And make it rock**__._

Summary: Follow the ever tenacious Gabriella Montez on the road to find herself; facing kids who always seem to break out into song, SATs, and Troy Bolton: a boy who has seemed to squirm himself into her life while she wasn't even looking. TG.

Rating: T for language, humor and adult situations

No, I do not own anything, unfortunately. Inspired by Meg Cabot's writing.

* * *

**THROUGH THE GRAPEVINE_: _**_Chapter one: I'm the narrator and this is just the prologue_

* * *

So there I was.

I, Gabriella Montez, was frantically pacing around a mini-mall in midtown Manhattan because I couldn't find the door to get outside.

I was in New York City on winter vacation. My mother got free suites at the Waldorf-Astoria as a welcome present for her new job, so she couldn't possibly turn them down. We (heart) NY, after all. So, while she was off making business deals and probably sipping pink martinis at a bar, I was freaking out because I could not get outside.

I couldn't believe that I didn't know how to get outside. I was just there _two seconds ago_. THIS IS A FREAKING MINI-MALL. How lost could one possibly get?? I just had to use the bathroom; it wasn't hard to find. So I'll just retrace my steps. Again.

Although, I just don't understand how I possibly could have gotten a perfect score on my PSATS but have no sense of direction. It's like the same basic concept, right?

Right.

I can do this.

I'm not going to get locked in forever.

I will find my way out.

I will.

I won't die here. Alone. Lost. Confused. Eyeliner slowly melting off of my face.

Think positive thoughts.

Maybe I should stop walking in a circle, I'm getting absolutely now-– OH, THAT WAS A DOOR?? I thought it was window. OHHHHH. WOW.

Life makes a lot more sense when you don't mistake windows for doors.

Oh, New York City. You never cease to confuse/amaze me.

* * *

I (FINALLY!!) made my way outside to see the huge tree in Rockefeller Plaza, when I bumped into a huge line of people waiting to go ice skating. Feeling more daring than usual, I asked some people on line if there was any specific reason to why they were on an enormous line for just a skating rink. They tell me that a ton of celebrities were coming that afternoon, and they were just trying to get a glimpse.

Since I had nothing better to do, I decided to jump on line.

I was in the process of fiddling with my iPod when a reporter from the New York Times came up to me, and asked if he could interview me about being a tourist.

"Yeah, I'm here on vacation. I just wanted to get a glimpse of the Plaza and see if I could see any celebrities," I tell the reporter with a bright smile, thinking nothing of it. "I'd love to meet Matthew McConaughey. Or Chris Brown." Preferably both. He asks me what my dream encounter would be with them, taking a notepad and a voice recorder out to write down what I say. I felt super important.

"Probably to sit down with them at Taco Bell for dinner. I'd buy them both tacos and we'd talk all night," I reply, half-joking, half-serious. Taco Bell is not something to joke around with, after all.

He chuckled, and asked me for my name, hometown and phone number so that I could be published in the New York Times. I grin at the prospect of being published in a huge newspaper. "G-A-B-R-I-E-L-L-A, M-O-N-T-E-Z; my number is 212-9406. And I'm from… Albuquerque, New Mexico." Or will be. I'm moving there next semester because of my mother's new job. It's going to be the seventh high school I go to. I know, I know. Such is the glamorous life of Gabriella Montez.

"Thanks so much, I'll try to catch you later to see if you've made any progress, alright?" I consented, and watched him flit through the crowd, only to stop to chat to a group of giggly girls who appear to have come with a dance company because of their matching sparkly leotards, makeup and hair.

Alas, I turned my attention to my cup of steaming White Chocolate Mocha from Starbucks, when a lady who was behind me on line, tapped me on the shoulder and said rather haughtily, "I hope you didn't give that man any personal information unless he gave you some identification." I blinked owlishly at her and said that I would never do such a thing.

Who did she think I was?

Psh.

I got a perfect score on my PSATS, okay?

I turned around.

And then I panicked.

….

...

_WHAT DID I JUST DO? _

Oh my god.

HE'S PROBABLY A RAPIST.

OH. MY. GOD.

…I just gave my full name, phone number and the town I lived in to a complete stranger.

SHIT.

And what if he had one of those hidden video cameras?? Those stupid ones that are the size of your fingernail that were in hats or on a collar or something else non-descript that you would never suspect. He could track me down in a second. Double SHIT.

Deep breaths, Montez.

In and out.

In and out.

In and out.

(Fuck, now I just want a burger from In-and-Out.)

But, no, he definitely _was_ a reporter from the New York Times.

Right?

Yes. Yes. Yes.

I felt the sudden urge to hunt him down and tackle him, where I would proceed to seize his little baby hidden video camera and recorder out of his hands so that I wouldn't be liable to any rape/murder/harassment of any sort. I could't find him in the crowd, unfortunately, consequently throwing said plans out of the window.

But I mean, just because he didn't show me any identification doesn't mean anything. He probably just forgot. People are human. They forget sometimes. Giving ID is such a trivial detail -- I'm sure I would have forgotten, too, had I been a reporter. Mhmm.

…

…

...

...

I AM SO GOING TO GET RAPED. AREN'T I?

Crap. And I haven't even made my will yet. Or lost my virginity. Or eaten sushi. My mother is going to kill me. She told me _specifically_ not to talk to strangers when I told her that I wanted to explore New York for a bit before we went back home, and what did I do? I go off telling a serial rapist about how I wanted to eat freaking Taco Bell with Matthew McConaughey. The _one_ time I let myself open up to a stranger, I stumble onto a potentially life-threatening situation. WHY ME?? Why does my mouth feel the need to open up at the most inopportune times?? Maybe I should go ask those policemen over there to arrest him now.

Possibly. Hmmarghh.

Oh wait. The New-York-Times-reporter/serial-rapist-dude is coming back.

"Making any progress?" He asks with a grin. I smiled forcefully at him, but inside I was fuming and I was trying my hardest not to slap him. Oh, I see right through your façade, Mr. Serial Rapist. I inspect him carefully this time, and I noticed that he's wearing a leather bomber jacket, for goodness sake. A LEATHER JACKET. That just screams rapist, if you ask me.

"Nope, not really. But thanks for checking back with me," I say shortly, pursing my lips. "I thought you were a rapist, or something," I add – very suavely, I might say. I crossed my fingers behind my back, hoping that he wouldn't shove me down a dark alley way, or anything.

He threw his head back and laughed, taking his card from the New York Times out of his jacket pocket to show that he was, indeed, a real reporter – and not a rapist.

Whew.

Crisis averted.

A+, Gabriella Montez, A+.

* * *

So, after that horribly draining, almost run-in with a rapist situation, I pretty much flew back to the hotel. I had to walk fourteen blocks, but it definitely was shorter walking than taking a cab, since it was New Year's Eve and all. Everywhere you looked – and I mean_, everywhere_ - there was a lot of preparation and anticipation for all of the hoopla that surrounded Times Square and Manhattan and the dropping of the ball or whatnot.

Which I've never gotten – and still don't – by the way. Why do so many people insist on seeing a stupid silver ball drop at 11:59? It's completely overrated, in my opinion. And it's not like it's this enormous ball, like sixty feet in diameter. It's SIX. _A measly six feet_. Talk about anti-climactic.

(Granted, I'm sure handling a sixty-foot silver ball would be quite a feat, but come on. I cannot believe my mother dragged me across the United States to see a stupid silver ball.)

And don't forget the almost rapist incident.

I plopped down on a plush couch in the lounge area of the hotel, bringing my feet to my knees and throwing an absolutely delicious sheep-skin blanket across my lap. I swear, if heaven were a blanket, this would be it. Ahhhhh. _So _luxurious.

Just as I was about to finish Little Women, mother dearest came and chided me on how I should be getting dressed for the New Year's Eve "teen party" in the ballroom.

Hah. As if I'm going to be caught dead in some kind of party with horny teenagers grinding to obnoxious music.

She said that she already laid out my clothes and everything, and I inwardly rolled my eyes. What am I, four? I can pick out my own clothes, thank you very much.

She blinked, noted my distress, and snatched the book out of my hands. Ugh.

Correction: mother dearest is the one acting like she's four years old.

But, if it meant that my mother is off of my back for the night, I realized that it was a good a reason as any to go. And so I sighed, consenting to go to the stupid party if she gave me Little Women back. She hands me the book, and I drag my feet up back to my room to get dressed.

At least I'm building karma points here.

* * *

And so that is how I found myself in the midst of the New Year's Eve teen party; which I must admit, disappointed me a little. It definitely wasn't crazy and hot and strobe lights and Justin Timberlake-ified. There were no hot boys and slutty girls strutting around. I felt like I was in some kind of Disney-fied version of teen party. There was only a karaoke stage and some kids wearing big hats and blowing noise-makers. Pity.

So with a lack of eye-candy, I ended up getting to the last chapter in Little Women.

That is, until a blinding spotlight seems to have picked me out of the crowd.

Next thing I know, I was getting pulled up on stage to sing karaoke, with another guy who seemed to be just as uncomfortable as I was.

I can't believe they actually think I'm going to sing karaoke in front of these kids. I DON'T SING. Not by myself anyways. Not after the fainting incident in church, last year.

...

Okay, so I didn't exactly_ faint_ faint, but it was all still very stressful. I was hyperventilating and bolted off the stage before they got to my solo.

Not one of my finest moments, you know.

But back to the problem at hand. I DON'T SING. And now the music is starting, and I'm not sure what to do because I DON'T SING. CRAP. (WHO DO THESE PEOPLE THINK I AM?? CHRISTINA AGUILERA?? I'M NOT PLATINUM BLONDE.) The guy next to me doesn't look like he's going to start singing, either.

Maybe they'll forget I was up here. I am wearing my black velvet BCBG slacks, so I could be easily mistaken for the stage.

Yes. I'm just going to blend in. Not make eye contact and/or any sudden movements.

...

DAMN IT. He's singing. And he's _good._

I sneak a glance at him.

He's attractive, too.

_Very_ attractive.

He has this messy brown hair and is wearing a dark brown corduroy blazer, with a light blue oxford shirt underneath – not tucked in, so he's definitely a jock. But he still cares about what he looks like because of his Diesel shoes – nice choice - and dark blue faded Levi's that hug his butt perfectly. Not that I'm looking.

I can't breathe and my palms are sweaty and I'm pretty sure my heart is going to jump out of my chest. I can't think, either, and if this isn't stage freight turned up to the highest volume, then I don't know what is.

Stupid crowds.

Or maybe it's just because this guy is so ridiculously good-looking that I can't form any coherent thoughts.

Perhaps.

"_When you take a chance…"_

OH SHIT. It's my start to start singing, isn't it?

DON'T OPEN YOUR MOUTH GABRIELLA. YOU'LL PROBABLY THROW UP.

DON'T OPEN YOUR MOUTH.

DON'T DO IT.

DON'T.

IT'S BLASPHEMY.

"I never believed in what I couldn't see…"

Treacherous mouth.

* * *

So I started to sing. And it actually wasn't that bad.

It was kind of-- dare I say… _fun. _

Very Attractive Boy has the most _gorgeous_ blue eyes you've ever seen, and they absolutely mesmerized me once I finally got over my stage fright and looked over at him. There was something just so warm and comforting about him that made my (treacherous) mouth keep singing. Or maybe it was because of the glass of champagne I snagged from the adult party in the other room.

Whatever it was, it felt so right to be there. Cliché, I know, but true.

But very attractive boy seemed to really get into it, too, taking off his jacket and throwing it into the crowd. Quite debonair, if I do say so myself.

The performance went well, I think. No one was booing, at least. I mean, there was this one extremely minor setback where Very Attractive Boy started to come towards me – with this really hot _come hither_ look that made me forget I was singing for a minute. So then I started to back up and up and up and would have fallen off the stage and into unconsciousness if it weren't for someone pushing me back.

I don't think anyone noticed, though. I played it off very well.

_I did. _

And then the song was done before I knew it.

Very Attractive Boy and I stare at each other for a second before he introduces himself as Troy Bolton, holding out his right hand.

"Gabriella Montez," I say with a smile, taking his hand but only staring at him, instead of shaking it. (Like a normal person would. Have I mentioned that I am a complete dolt??)

"Well, Gabriella Montez, I was wondering if you'd like to accompany me to dinner?" He asks, chivalrously. He has a really nice voice. Understanding and deep.

I accepted, of course. He grins and squeezes my hand before leading the way to the dining hall.

For some reason, my palms are _still_ sweaty, my heart _still _feels like it's about to burst and I _still_ can't breathe or think properly.

Hm.

The start of something new, it was.

* * *

Troy and I walked over to an empty table, where he even pulled the chair out for me to sit down. He's so charming. I thanked him, and the waiter quickly came, providing us with some water and taking our orders.

"So are you here on vacation?" Troy asks, drumming his fingers against the table.

"Yes," I roll my eyes. "I love New York, don't get me wrong, but I think the whole New Year's Eve ball bash is overdone." I waved my hands around, gesticulating to the party we were currently stuck in.

"Yeah, but we wouldn't have met if it weren't for the party," he points out.

This is true. I tell him that he has a point.

"But I still cannot believe how that guy had the audacity to push me up on the stage. Girls do not like being put in uncomfortable situations. We like to be in control all of the time." I tell Troy, before scarfing down the delicious bread the waiter has just brought. "Seriously, guys are so stupid. They don't know anything about females. Oh wait. Maybe you do. Are you gay?"

Troy looks momentarily appalled. "No. Why, do I seem gay?"

"No, not to me. I just don't have the best gaydar. See, once I set up my mother up with one of my summer camp counselors, but he ended up leaving her for another man." My bad.

He chuckled. "Nope, I'm definitely not gay," he says, giving me a pointed look.

"Well, in that case, why are boys so stupid? I don't understand," I pause to thank the waiter as he brings Troy his chicken parmesan and my shrimp scampi. The food looks amazing, and I don't hesitate to dig in. "Like, I was at this restaurant and this boy comes over with a note written on a napkin asking me out because he thought I was beautiful and looked like his _ex_-girlfriend. Talk about lack of tactic. Who does that? It was rather unfortunate because he was very attractive." I sigh, disappointed. "Boys have no clue."

He smirked at my story. "Well, I can't really speak on behalf of the rest of the male population, but I tend to do and say things without thinking. Especially when there are gorgeous women in front of us." He winks at me. Was he flirting with me?

"It's hard to believe that you of all people would lose composure around females. You're too perfect." Wait. Did I just flirt _back_?

"Trust me, I have my moments of weakness," he says softly with a glassy look in his eyes. "Like right before basketball games, I'm always a mess." And his charisma returns.

I roll my eyes. "I swear, all boys think about are the three S's: sports, sex and anything stupid." He throws his head back and laughs. He has a really sexy neck, I notice.

"But I'm serious, Troy. You're only laughing because you know it's true," I tell him pointedly. "See, there was this other time at school, where I was sitting patiently in English class, when this guy next to me announced to me he was really horny. And I was like, okay? I'm not going to do anything about it. I felt like he wanted me to give him, you know," I lower my voice and look around to see if any younger children were near, "A BLOWJOB."

He raises his eyebrows. "Oh."

"I know, right? And it's not like I'm the type of person who gives people blowjobs all the time, so I had no idea why he had the nerve to say something to me. I've never given anyone a blowjob, actually." I felt like I had diarrhea of the mouth, and I just couldn't stop talking for some reason. I had no idea why I was telling this guy all this, probably because I would never see him after tonight, so it didn't matter. I never actually had someone to really talk to with, so it felt good to talk about boy problems. And Troy was such a good listener.

I look at him closely, then. He really is _such_ an attractive person. Great lips and a killer smile. And just so nice. There really are totally great-looking, funny, lovely guys out there. It's a shame that I've found one on vacation, though, so I can't really pursue anything. (Plus, I've seem to have mentioned to him all of my boy vices, so he probably would never want to date me. WHY DID I TELL HIM ALL OF THAT? STUPID GABRIELLA.) And I wouldn't have the guts to ask him out, anyway.

"You're really nice," I blurt out to Troy. There goes that mouth again. "Thanks for listening to me. You probably think I'm delusional."

He grins – he really has an awesome smile, have I mentioned that? – and replies cryptically, "No, you're anything but delusional, actually."

* * *

We found ourselves meandering outside to catch the inevitable midnight fireworks. I nearly forgot it was New Year's Eve, the way the night has been turning out. I learn that contrary to my personal thoughts, Troy isn't a professional singer, and I tell him about my ALMOST fainting church choir incident.

And then it was 11:59. People started to count down, and Troy and I were at a loss for conversation.

_3_…_ 2… 1… HAPPY NEW YEAR'S!_

I found myself in a staring contest with Troy.

And I was losing.

Is it just me, or is he looking at my mouth? Did I have something stuck in my teeth? God — I knew I shouldn't have eaten the spinach dip. Or maybe I have something on my lip gloss? Eww. I licked my lips.

I felt as if all my senses were heightened, and I suddenly became aware of everything going around me.

Okay, his head is definitely _leaning in towards me._

What does that mean?

Does he want to kiss me?

Oh crap, he does want to kiss me. It's midnight and everything. Idiot.

But I couldn't tear my eyes away from his lips that were coming closer and closer.

I can't let him kiss me, though, right? That would be stupid because I'm never going to see him again and that would make everything that much more complicated.

But his lips look so soft and kissable.

Maybe I'll let him kiss me.

Just once.

Oh yes.

Oh no.

"I better go find my mom."

My eyes – which had involuntarily shut on its own accord – snapped open.

Who said that? I glanced furiously around us.

…

Damn, it was me, wasn't it?

STUPID FREAKING MOUTH. HE WAS ABOUT TO KISS ME. WHY DID I JUST SAY THAT?? WHY??

Troy looks startled for a moment, and then regains his composure. "Yeah, me too." He looks away. "I mean not your mom, my mom. And dad." He adds nervously.

I nodded and stared at my feet, not knowing how to say good-bye to him exactly.

A beat.

"I'll call you tomorrow?" He half asks, half states. Good idea. At least one of us could form complete thoughts. We both shuffled around getting each other's phone numbers before I smiled and walked away from him.

Oops.

I left without even saying good-bye to him or giving him hug or anything.

Ugh.

I really need to get a new, properly functioning mouth.


	2. Chivalry is Dead

* * *

_Chapter two: Chivalry is dead, but you're still kind of cute.  
_

* * *

**January 4****th****, 2006, 4:00PM**

**somewhere over Kansas**

I hate boys.

I hate cute boys. I hate boys who make you laugh. I hate boys that offer you their jackets when it's cold outside. I hate boys that say that they're going to call you, but then they don't. I hate boys who tell you about their fear of clowns, boys that pay for dinner, boys that listen to you babble on for hours and boys that watch fireworks with you. I hate boys that almost kiss you at midnight, but then leave the next day, no matter what.

And just when I was beginning to have faith in men.

Yet there I was, on the airplane to Albuquerque, sans phone call from a certain blue-eyed, brown haired boy.

Ugh.

Maybe he _was_ gay.

Probably.

He was too good looking.

I sighed.

Double ugh.

Maybe God is telling me something.

After all of my past fiascos with boys, maybe he's telling me that boys and Gabriella Montez don't mix.

Like oil and water.

Or electricity and water.

Or Jennifer Aniston and Angelina Jolie.

Anyway, boys are always too stupid, too shy, too deceitful or too gay. (Not that being gay is bad, it's just that when boys are gay, I can't get involved, obviously.)

But they're all SO attractive.

See, if only Troy wasn't so attractive, I wouldn't be moping. I would be enjoying this absolutely relaxing flight, admiring the bouncy clouds and indulging in the free pillows and blankets the flight attendants have so graciously bestowed upon me.

But I'm not, because Troy said he'd call me and he didn't. Damn it.

I think I should join a convent.

Yeah.

Maybe somewhere in Italy.

Or Amsterdam.

Mm, that sounds like a plan.

* * *

**January 6th, 2006**

**7:50AM; East High parking lot**

Shifting my school bag nervously on my shoulder, I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly as I looked upon the campus grounds. East High, my new stomping ground, was just as extravagant and gorgeous as my mother described it to me. And from first glance, it seemed as if the students were no less extravagant and gorgeous.

From Sidekicks to Chanel purses to Tory Burch flats and Miss Sixty jeans, the East High students appeared to have walked right out of Gossip Girl. There were cliques of course; the emo kids, the wanna-be emo kids, the jocks and cheerleaders, the Asians, the drama kids and the nerds.

I anxiously stepped inside the main hallway, looking for the office so I could get my schedule.

I easily locate the main office and found a secretary who appeared nice enough. She had pictures of her kid - Kirby I assume from the name on the frame - littered across her desk, and I hold back a laugh.

Who names their kid Kirby? Isn't that the pink dude who eats everything in Super Smash Brothers? Oh man.

The secretary comes back with my schedule and I pretend to be looking around the office and not at her personal pictures of Kirby. Baha.

She handed it to me with a grin and asked if I needed someone to show me around.

"No thanks, I think I'll be fine." Usually the people who show me around end up ditching me after two periods, so I've learned to fend for myself after moving quite a bit. I ambled my way out of the door, giving my thanks to the secretary while trying not to get shoved by the sea of people that seemed to just pour in. The first bell must've rung.

Looking down at my freshly printed schedule, still warm from the copier machine, I shuffled my way towards homeroom 103. I double-take as I look inside the classroom, lined with grand onyx drapery and lots of props and extra scenery from, what I'm guessing, past school shows. I must have stumbled into the homeroom the drama teacher. Yay. Me.

I entered the classroom, half-expecting for everyone to stop with their side conversations, stare me down and break out into whispers, but alas, no one seemed to have noticed my presence as I ducked my head down, taking an empty seat towards the back of the classroom. I wasn't in an Audrey Hepburn movie, after all.

I can barely take a solitary glance around the room — there's some basketball players playing with a basketball, (can someone please tell me why anyone would carry around a basketball to homeroom?) a girl with horrible bleach blond hair and other hipsterish looking people – when the homeroom teacher comes in with a flourish.

Talk about making a dramatic entrance.

Ms. Darbus had a booming voice, wacky clothes and a big personality to match.

She tells a Mr. Danforth that the classroom wasn't a hockey arena and for a Mr. Bolton to take his seat and, wait.

Mr. Bolton?

Like Troy Bolton?

No effing way.

I tried to glance at the front of the room and can only see that the boy had messy brown hair - like Troy's - but it's a common haircut and last name, right? So I can't get my hopes up.

Not that I would, because I don't believe in boys anymore.

Mhmm.

And all of a sudden, my cell phone goes off, and I lunged inside my bag, half-curious and half-embarrassed that I'd only been in school for less than ten minutes without breaking the rules.

Who could be calling me?

Troy's (wonderful…ly ugly) face pops up on my screen, and I'm taken aback, quite frankly.

I thought I never would have heard from him again.

But why would he call at this time?

Doesn't he live… oh wait, where _does_ he live?

Maybe he lives in London and it was really 5 in the afternoon, so it would have been a perfectly normal time to call someone.

Perhaps.

...

I make a mental note that I should call him back when I get the chance, but then I remember that I was going to join a convent and dismiss the idea.

Darbus was evidently on a reign of terror as she stops in front of my desk, welcoming me to East High and then proceeding to give me a detention. I hesitantly dropped my cell phone in her paint can of doom and vaguely wondered when I would be able to get it back so that I could call Troy.

NO.

I'm joining a convent.

Stupid short-term memory.

I fight the urge to slap my forehead.

And so, Darbus continued on with the normal spiel – I have detention painting props after school today – and I jiggled my foot nervously, waiting for the day to continue on. The bell rings obnoxiously and I jumped out of my seat, ecstatic to get out of Darbus's claws.

And I barely made it out of the room before being stopped by a very familiar blue-eyed boy.

It WAS Troy Bolton.

I do a double-take, and I don't believe it. He can't either.

I pinch myself just to make sure that I wasn't dreaming.

And it hurt, so I am alive.

What was this, Grease?

There was a one in seven hundred million chance that I would end up at his high school. But there we were.

He smiles, a bit apologetically, and whispers, "I tried calling you on New Year's Day, but we had to leave first thing."

I nodded meekly, accepting his answer half-heartedly, but he could have called me afterwards, no? I was prepared to sidestep him, but he smelled so good. It was kind of intoxicating.

In a good way, I mean.

But why was he whispering?

I ask him and he didn't realize he was doing it, but he mumbles something about snowboarding and singing. Then he pauses to say hello to half of the school, so I turn into another hallway, looking for my Physics class.

He pops up again, (I can't get rid of him, can I?) motions grandly to the main hallway around us and says, "Well, welcome to East High," with the cheesiest smile on his face.

I raise an eyebrow at all the bright posters, the bronze wildcat statue and superfluous decorations that littered the walls.

"Looks like a lot going on," I state dryly.

He laughs, and hearing it again brings a smile on my face because he has the most delicious laugh ever, and I was suddenly overcome with the sudden urge to hug him. "We're very involved, here. Sports, academics, arts and musicals," he stops to point at the musical sign-up sheet, "East High does it all."

"And are you going to be trying out for the musical?" I ask shyly, playing with the buttons of my jacket.

His eyes become large for a moment, but the expression disappears as quickly as it came as he shakes his head. "No, are you thinking of trying out?"

"No, definitely not," I answer, almost getting nauseous at the suggestion of singing on stage in front of people, again. "Although, if you were in it, I'd consider coming to the show."

Oops, was that a flirty comment? I didn't mean to say that. Stupid mouth.

He laughs again and opens his mouth to respond when the girl with the very fake blond hair (from homeroom, I mean) sashays over to the sign-up sheet, taking up most of the paper with her ridiculous left-handed signature.

I peer over her shoulder to read her name: Sharpay Evans.

Like the dog? I snort inwardly. She must have gone through a horrible childhood with that name.

She turns around and sees Troy and me staring blankly at her. "Oh, were you going to sign up, too?" She asks with a certain fakeness that I immediately pick up on. So it wasn't just the hair. She has a very irritating voice, and I can't quite look at her in the eyes because her sparkles were blinding me.

"Er, no, I was just looking around," I reply shortly, and Troy nods in agreement.

"Oh, well, my brother and I star in all the school's productions. We really welcome newcomers. There are a lot of _supporting roles_, so I'm sure we could find something for you." She answers with a smirk, and her mannerisms remind me of a pet Chihuahua. I don't think I'm going to like this girl.

But I smile politely and start moving towards the staircase. "I guess I better get going," I say slowly, glancing at Troy's amused face and sparkly-Sharpay girl's un-amused one.

I feel her eyes glare at my back as I walk away, but she was probably just jealous that I was blessed with a normal name and she was named after a dog, so hah.

* * *

**East High Auditorium**

**3:00PM**

I've never received a detention in my whole entire life, you know.

Probably because I'm too boring and ordinary and good for my own sake.

Or it's because I'm short.

All short people are either, (a) famous or (b) nice. And I just happen to fall into the second category.

Regardless, I've never had detention before, but at least we were just painting props and we weren't being held in captivity for four hours and forced to write lines that simultaneously sear into cuts on the back of your hand. Oh wait, was that Harry Potter? Probably.

Troy had gotten a detention, too — he told me earlier that he called me because he _thought_ he saw me in homeroom, but wasn't sure. And I was all, you could have just talked to me, you know. Like a normal person. But Troy acts before he thinks, so he called my cell, instead, and consequently landed us both in detention. Which is alright because he's ridiculously good looking, and that makes up for all of his faults.

Wait, I didn't mean to think that.

* * *

I was minding my own business, painting a moon a dusty grey when a pretty, yet slightly frazzled African-American girl comes up to me and bursts, "We'd love to have you on our team."

"Huh?" I answer stupidly, extremely confused.

"Academic Decathlon? Didn't you put these papers in my locker?" She holds up a very embarrassing article about me winning the ACADECA competition in Maine.

"I would never. Where did you get those?" I'm both very intrigued and appalled by the conversation.

"In my locker. But if you didn't put them there, who did?" She knits her eyebrows together.

"Beats me." If I just snatch the papers out of her hand and rip them up into pieces, would she think that I'm insane? Not that I'm NOT insane, but I don't need a bad reputation at this school. Mother said that we wouldn't move until I graduated, so I'm going to be here for quite awhile.

Before I'm able to devise a plan to take the papers away from the girl, some dude barges into the auditorium, yells for a bit and asks for Troy and Chad (Troy's afro-haired partner in crime) because they have basketball practice.

I look over at Troy and he looks sheepish as he drags Chad out of the tree, his eyes shifting towards me as he walks out.

Troy Bolton, a basketball player?

Why didn't he tell me that before?

Was the kid good at everything?

Hm.

I wonder if he was captain of the varsity basketball team and class President and editor of the school newspaper _and_ a member of the National Honors Society. One of _those_ kids.

Maybe.

The girl turns to me, apologizes for her mistake and I tell her not to worry about it. "My name is Taylor McKessie, by the way. How do you like East High so far?"

"It's… nice." I say, for lack of a better word. What was I supposed to say? I feel uncomfortable with all the flashiness and fakeness, I got my first detention and I re-met the loveliest boy I had ever known?

We share a look as she smiles understandingly, and for the first time, I actually felt welcomed. And it was nice.

* * *

**January 7, 2006**

**8:30AM: Pre-calc **

"So, it looks like you knew Troy Bolton," a voice drawls from somewhere in front of me.

I jumped up at the sudden sound, looked across the desk and lo and behold, there's Miss Sharpay (the person, not the dog) Evans tapping her perfectly manicured hands lackadaisically on the table.

She's giving me an icy stare and I wonder if Troy forgot to mention something terribly important about himself. Who did this chick think she was? The Queen of England?

OR WAIT.

Worse.

What if she was Troy's girlfriend?

No.

Maybe.

We never really talked about it, but he would have told me, right?

Nevermind that, I've got her figured out anyways.

Upon closer inspection of her pristine pink tweed blazer, I get a nagging feeling that she's just simply like the rest of these country club, upper society girls.

Rich, skinny and bitchy.

I frown down at my worksheet. "Um, not really," I retort carefully, just in case she was Troy's girlfriend. I didn't want to give her any wrong ideas. "He was just showing me around." Which was true.

She perks up a little bit and gives me a small smile. "Yeah, well, Troy usually doesn't interact with new students." She looks at me, almost apologetically.

Oh really?

"Why's that?" I feigned disinterest, pretending to pay attention to my calc work, but maintaining a level of sangfroid, if I do say so myself.

"Well, it's usually basketball 24/7 with him," she prattles on disinterestedly, inspecting her nails.

Hm, I wonder why he never told me about his basketball obsession.

He couldn't be embarrassed by it. Unless they have a really terrible basketball team.

Oh, that's probably it. Aww, poor thing. At least he's good at singing. And attractive. And could possibly be class president/editor of the newspaper/member of the National Honors Society.

Unlike me, who's much too ordinary and boring and can only figure out logarithms and pi and that answer to number four should be 16π.

* * *

**January 8, 2006**

**7:45AM: East High north courtyard**

"What do you know about Troy Bolton?" I subtly ask Taylor as we walk across the front lawn.

She gives me a knowing look that I pointedly ignore, but continues to answer, regardless. "Troy Bolton? Well, I'm not completely familiar with that particular sub-species, but he is arguably the coolest guy in school. Everyone adores him. Guys want to be him, girls want to be with him; he's your typical jock. He doesn't really associate with anyone other than his barbarian teammates and the popular kids, but he seems charming enough, to me." She shrugs.

Ah. I had to stumble across Mr. Popularity.

"Why are you so interested?" She turns and faces me.

"I'm not interested, interested," I raise my hands defensively. "I was just curious. He just… showed me around." And we had a New Year's Eve rendezvous at a hotel in New York City, but that's all.

"He showed you around?" She looks appalled.

"Why is that such a bad thing around here?" Man, I know I'm ordinary and boring and not that exciting, but you'd think people would give me a little bit of credit.

"Oh, it's just that East High is your typical American high school with a social pyramid, so no one really, well, mingles," she says slowly.

"Mingles?"

"We all stick to our groups of friends. It's not bad, it's just the way things always go." Taylor looks sideways at the cheerleaders practicing their routine by the front entrance. "It's the status quo. And you can't change that."

* * *

So after my talk with Taylor and a few of my own investigations, I've learned that Troy Bolton _is _class president, he is not the editor of the school newspaper nor is he a member of the NHS, but he is the captain of East High's boys varsity basketball team. Go figure.

And the basketball team?

They've won over 16 national championships.

Troy Bolton is kind of a big deal around here.

Not that I'm surprised.

After seeing the way that people greet him once he's stepped off the school bus in the morning, it's quite evident he's like royalty around here. You'd think he was the Pope or something. Especially because he's always got an entourage with him. Which is mostly made up of Chad and his other basketball friends, but they're always around him regardless.

Which is why I haven't been able to talk to him for three days now.

Not that I care.

Much.

* * *

**January 11, 2006**

**7:00AM: My room**

_Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep._

I faintly heard my alarm clock going off, and with my eyes still shut, I smacked my arm around, hoping it'll find its way to the snooze button.

It finally shuts off, and I groaned loudly because I have a Physics test first period and-- OH. MY. GOD.

I sit straight up in my bed, glancing frantically from the clock to my forgotten Physics textbook lying on the opposite side of my comforter.

A PHYSICS TEST FIRST PERIOD.

AND I FELL ASLEEP.

I DIDN'T STUDY.

OH SHIT.

Okay, calm down, Gabriella. It's not the end of the world. It's only one test.

(THAT COUNTS FOR A THIRD OF YOUR GRADE.)

I jump out of bed and start to pace back and forth.

It's one test.

I can do this.

Physics is easy and it's all multiple choice so I have a chance.

I do.

I do believe in fairies, I do, I do.

….

Oh, God.

Maybe I should just stay home and fake sick. YES, at least I'm thinking rational thoughts now— "Gabriella, are you awake, sweetie?" My mother pokes her head in my door as I'm caught wide awake, out of my bed. "Oh good, I thought I was going to have to pour water on you again." I glare at her as I recall the tragic memory. I'm a heavy sleeper, sue me.

"Um, mom?" I begin hesitantly as she starts to go downstairs.

"Yes?"

"I think I'm sick."

She comes back into my room and frowns, feeling my forehead as I feel my heartbeat getting faster in anxiety. "You don't have a temperature, but you do look a little pale. What's the matter?"

"My heart is palpitating."

Now she looks amused. "Your heart is palpitating?" She asks skeptically.

"Yes. That's what it's called, palpitating, right? When your heart is beating irregularly. And it hurts. Nay, it THROBS." I emphasize, clutching my heart and pouting.

"I think you just had one too many cups of coffee this morning. Better lay off for awhile, alright, honey?" She winks and pads across the room, leaving me to wallow alone in my misery.

I whimper and throw myself to my closet, feeling especially melodramatic.

After shuffling around for a bit because I couldn't find _anything _to wear - don't you hate those days? - I declared that today is going to suck because I'm not going to have time for breakfast and I can't take a shower because I ran out of my Frederick Fekkai shampoo and don't forget that physics test I didn't study for.

Actually, I think 'suck' is the understatement of the century.

Damn karma.

* * *

**still January 11, 2006  
**

**8:41AM: Physics**

I look down at my answer paper and realize that I have four A's in a row. And that can't be right, so I change two of them into B's and one into a D.

Fighting the urge to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation, (I mean, how could anyone think that I'm actually smart? I'm such a slacker.) I place my pencil down on the desk.

I glanced helplessly at the actual test and decided that there was no use in checking over my answers because I had no clue what half of the questions were talking about anyway, so semi-satisfied, I stood up, grabbing my bag and handing my test over to the teacher, offering a small smile on my way out.

In the hallway, I closed my eyes and take a deep breath.

At least that's over with.

* * *

Or so I thought, because I walked into Pre-calc and who would have guessed, but we had a pop quiz! Whoopdee-do.

And I promise that my day only got better from there, because during lunch I spilled my soda all over me, so I had to call my mother to bring me a new shirt. Why am I such a klutz? It was my favorite American Apparel shirt, too. I hope Fanta doesn't stain.

Oh, and then I forgot to print out my English homework, so I got a homework zero, and now I have to wait an hour for my mother to pick me up because she's running late at a meeting.

Welcome to the fabulous life of Gabriella Montez.

I slinked down into a bench, thankful that at least the weather was beautiful today.

But before I can place my iPod earphones into my ears, a shadow falls across my body, and I have to squint to see who's standing in front of me.

And just like a cheesy novel, it had to be the one and only Troy Bolton. He's grinning goofily at me, a basketball spinning deftly on one finger.

"Hey, what's up?" He asks, just as if we'd been friends forever. Which I wasn't even sure that we were. Friends, I mean. He hadn't spoken to me for what, six days? Not that I was counting.

But I decided to humor him and replied cheekily, "The sky."

"Lame answer."

"Lame question. What are you supposed to answer with?" Dork.

"Oh, you know, 'nothing much, you?' The normal response, and all." He drops the ball, taking a seat next to me on the bench. "But, really, how have you been? I feel like I haven't talked to you since you've gotten here."

Duh, because you haven't.

I smile sweetly, looking out at the parking lot full of Mercedes-Benz's and BMW's before confessing, "Well, I'm okay. But I don't think East High likes me very much."

He chuckles and drapes his arm across the back of the bench. "That's ridiculous, how could anyone not like you?" Aw, that was sweet.

"I don't know, but I feel like I'm having the worst time here. I got my first detention, I'm pretty sure I failed my Physics test today, I forgot my English homework and now I have to stay here forever until my mom picks me up because I missed the bus." I'm whining, but I can't help it because it's been such a long day, and I'm hungry.

"Hey, stop that, you're overreacting." He picks up my chin so that I'm looking into his eyes. "First of all, that detention was my fault and you know it; your Physics and English grades aren't going to matter in the long run because from what I hear, you're a genius," at that I blush horribly, but Troy doesn't seem to notice or care as he continues, "and as for you waiting for your mom, I can drive you home right now, if you want."

"Oh, no, I don't want to be more of a hassle. You already had to listen to me complain and moan about my horrible day. I'll be fine, Troy."

"No you won't. And I like hearing you moan." Is it me, or did his eyes turn darker? Wait, was he being suggestive? Is he kidding? His normal, but still beautiful eye color returns before I can contemplate it any further, as he says, "But really, I'm not going to take no for an answer. If I have to, I'm going to throw you over my shoulder, strap you down into my car and drive you home." Oh, please do.

"No, don't you have basketball practice or something?" My mouth just can't seem to say yes, for some reason.

"I don't, which is why I'm offering you a ride home." He starts to pick up my things and offers a hand to help me up. "Come on, I'm trying to be chivalrous." He grins and I never noticed it before, but he has the most glorious dimple on his left cheek when he smiles widely.

"Chivalry is dead, didn't you get the memo?" I tease, shaking my head.

"Ah, chivalry is not dead, 'tis only sleeping, my sweet." He winks. "So, may I hold your hand and escort you to my car, beautiful Gabriella Montez?"

He looks so earnest and puppy-dog adorable that I couldn't possibly say no. So I took his hand in mine and reveled at how lovely they felt.

Before we crossed the parking lot, my Physics teacher, who was going to his own car, stops me and says congratulations.

Troy smirks and gives me a pointed look as I ask, "For what?"

"Your Physics test." Mr. Simmons exclaims as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Are you serious?" I ask, dumbfounded.

"Of course I am, Miss Montez, you scored a 100 percentile. The only one in the class. Keep up the great work; I'll see you in class tomorrow. You too, Mr. Bolton." He grins at us both, glancing down at our still clasped hands, before getting into his car.

Troy looks over at my shocked face and laughs loudly. "Oh, Montez, I told you that you were overreacting. You're _amazing._ Simmons' class is seriously hardcore." He squeezes my hand.

"But I really guessed on everything, I didn't study at all--" I start, but Troy wouldn't hear it, as he lifts his free hand to stop me.

"Enough of your babbling, let's go. Do you want to get some dinner with me? Or do you have to do something else important? Because if you do, that's okay, it is a school night, we can just--"

"Troy, shut up. I'd love to go to dinner. As long as you're paying, Mr. Chivalrous." I reply, jokingly.

He laughs again, and my stomach starts to ache once more, but I don't think it's because I'm starving. "Of course, dinner is on me tonight." He grins, and he holds open the car door for me, before getting into the driver's seat himself.

"Then let's kick it."

Ah, I love karma.


End file.
